


darling, so there you are

by ofamaranthlie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofamaranthlie/pseuds/ofamaranthlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their emotional, final OTRA concert and a night of partying, waking up to one of the world's saddest movies isn't really what Niall had in mind.  Harry disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	darling, so there you are

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my story ["same old songs, just once more"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5193200) but it is not necessary to have read it, as it works as a stand alone. Based off of [this adorable](https://www.instagram.com/p/9jWYgXsyIy/?taken-by=niallhoran) Instagram post by Niall. Hope you enjoy! :) also I can be found at sinfuldirection.tumblr.com for more Narry and 1D shenanigans!

Morning rolls in too early, as always, and Niall feels the consequences of the night prior like a brick to his face.  His head feels like it’s splitting open, and there’s a sour tang on his tongue that tastes like too much alcohol and a night of questionable decisions. The hotel light, though dim, is still too much for him, exacerbating the pounding in his head. He groans into his pillow, trying to hide from the world and will himself back to sleep.  All he needs is another two more hours of sleep, and then he’ll feel less like a zombie and more like a person.  Maybe.  It usually works that way, Niall’s learned from far too many past experiences.

His mind prevents him from sleeping as memories of last night return slowly, thick and heady as syrup, creating a hazy slideshow of debauchery and bittersweet times. Their last concert, hooking up with Harry in the dressing room before hitting the town with the rest of the lads, where the alcohol and banter never seemed to stop flowing. He remembers leaving the club, the wet feeling of Harry’s openmouthed kisses pressed to his face and neck, the way he murmured _fuckmefuckmefuckme_ like a prayer against Niall’s skin in the ride back to the hotel, even though they both knew they were too drunk to shag.  He remembers the way Harry swayed on his feet when they finally returned to the hotel room, all easy smiles and loose limbs and slurred _c’mere_ s, and Niall felt like he was falling in love with him again – or maybe that was just the alcohol talking because really, _so cheesy_. And when all they could manage to do was tangle together in bed and exchange slow, deep kisses, he remembers thinking how, no matter what the future holds, he doesn’t regret a moment.

Well, he does sort of regret drinking too much last night, but details.

There’s a quiet hum of voices in the room, and Niall would whine out in protest of the sound if he could recognize it; but the voices are distinctly not Harry, and that’s curious enough for him to open his eyes and risk getting sick all over himself. Carefully lifting his head, he squints to see Harry sitting on the edge of the bed, illuminated by the faint glow of the television as he scrolls through his phone.  Harry’s hair is a complete rat’s nest – a tangled, poofy mess like it always becomes when he doesn’t take care to pull it up before falling asleep. Maybe once his head stops feeling like it’s about to explode, he can help Harry comb it out. He knows how silly it sounds, but helping Harry untangle his hair is a soothing, quiet activity that he enjoys more than he will ever admit.

Harry looks up from his phone and to the television, and Niall follows his gaze to see what’s on.  There’s a rambunctious yellow Labrador running across the house, and Niall’s stomach flip-flops in a way that has nothing to do with his hangover because _he knows this movie_.  It’s only when Owen Wilson appears on screen and says the dog’s name does Niall groan, head lowering back on the pillow.

“Marley,” he says, doing his best to sound disapproving.

He either does a piss poor job or Harry doesn’t care, as he just turns to Niall with those big, warm eyes, like there’s nothing soul crushing about this fact at all.

“Marley & Me,” Harry corrects, and Niall would roll his eyes if he didn’t think it’d make him dizzy.

“Why are you watching Marley & Me, pet?”

Harry crinkles his nose like he hasn’t given it much thought (and he probably didn’t at the time), before eventually shrugging.  “It was on.”

Niall huffs a quiet breath, dragging a hand down his face and trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his head. “Right, of course.”

When he looks back at Harry, his brows are arched and he’s wearing this playful little smile, and Niall’s not sure why Harry’s so defensive about this movie, but it’s more than a little endearing. 

“It’s a good movie!” Harry insists, and now it’s Niall’s turn to lift his brows.

“It’s a _sad_ movie,” he says, and Harry shrugs again, murmuring something to himself that sounds suspiciously like _cute movie_.

Everything about this moment – from the way Harry looks utterly delighted when Marley causes more trouble in the house, to the still lingering memories of the night before – feels incredible and surreal, and he needs a way to document it; just to remember that it happened, that he still has _this_ (mornings with Harry, with his silly, charming ways, and those sleepy smiles that are only for Niall).  He tries to reach for his phone, arm straining before flopping down the side of the bed when he can’t quite grab it. 

“Phone,” he mumbles.  Maybe his phone will somehow magically come to him if he complains enough.  It’s a nice thought, anyway.

But Harry’s already on the case, padding over to Niall’s bedside and passing him his phone without a word.  Murmuring a quiet word in thanks, Niall carefully shifts in bed, lifting his pillow so he can slowly sit up.  The world spins for a moment, all moving colors and blurry edges, and he closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath to allow the dizzy spell to pass.  When he opens his eyes, Harry’s looking at him, all bright eyes and a slight, curved smile.  Niall squints, because that’s not the look of someone who was so drunk the prior night, he could barely stand, and why’s he the only one suffering this morning?

“How are you not properly hungover?” he asks, because really, it’s not fair that only one of them is knackered.

“Oh, I was,” Harry says, almost cheerful about this prospect, and Niall wonders if Harry ever _was_ hungover, or at least to the degree Niall’s feeling it.  “But I’ve been awake for a while.  Medicine kicked in." 

Harry gestures to Niall’s bedside table, and only then does Niall notice the glass of water and aspirin pills.  “When you can stomach it,” Harry adds.

A flush of warmth, and okay, he can’t be too mad at Harry for his chipper attitude and taste in heart wrenching movies when he’s being so thoughtful.

“Ah, lifesaver,” he says.  Harry gives a pleased little hum when Niall takes two pills and slowly sips enough water to swallow them, only wincing a little at how scratchy his throat feels.

As doting as Harry is, it doesn’t entirely excuse his choice in morning films and apparent determination to make Niall cry, and so he gets back to his mission. Swiping the camera function on his phone, he steadies his hands the best he can before snapping a quick picture of the TV. Satisfied with the shot of Marley, he pulls up Instagram, and he’s just selected the photo when Harry sits on the edge of the bed next to him, leaning in to see the screen.

“What are you doing?”  Harry’s close enough that Niall can smell the cigarette smoke and fading cologne that clings to him, bringing back more pleasant memories of last night, with Harry all over him like it hurt to be farther than a few inches away.

“Throwing shade at you,” Niall says, slowly typing a caption for the photo so the whole world can know what pain he’s being forced to endure.  _I'm hungover and someone just put 'Marley and me ' on ... This is not fair on my emotions_

Still hovering, Harry makes a thoughtful sound low in his throat, like he’s studying something of great scientific importance rather than Niall putting his boyfriend on blast.

“But wouldn’t you have to include my name to actually throw shade at me?” Harry asks, amusement laced in his slow drawl that makes Niall whine, tossing his phone to the side the moment the photo uploads.

“Too early for that logic, babe.”

Harry looks like he’s two seconds away from pointing out that it’s actually quite late in the morning, which simply won’t do, so he extends his arms to Harry in the universal sign of _come here_. The prospect of cuddles usually works as a good distraction, and sure enough, Harry’s all too happy to wriggle under the sheets besides Niall, who has to scoot over to make room for them both. Resting his head on Niall’s chest, Harry skims his fingers down Niall’s arm in slow, gentle swoops – idle affection that gives Niall basks in, warmth flooding his veins.

“It’s okay if you cry, you know,” Harry says, and Niall just laughs, squeezing Harry’s hip and stroking his thumb against his hipbone.

“Yeah right, more like I won’t tell the other lads when _you_ start sobbing.”

Harry retaliates by pressing his cold feet to Niall’s, and they’re a giggling mess by the time they eventually settle against each other and watch the film.

\--

(They both end up in tears by the time the credits roll.  Neither mentions it to the others.)


End file.
